


Better

by IKEAwhatyoudidthere



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 20:57:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20645564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IKEAwhatyoudidthere/pseuds/IKEAwhatyoudidthere
Summary: Some lessons in life stay with you to your very end, they change you, make you a better person.Draco Malfoy has learnt many things in the course of his life- some from very unexpected people. His most valuable though, was gifted to him by the love of his life.The greatest thing, you'll ever learnIs Just to love, and be loved in return.





	Better

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Volume 4: The Soundtracks  
Much love to my Beta FirewhiskySoul.  
Song Prompt - Nature Boy - Nat King Cole - Untamed Heart
> 
> *Runner up : Best Male Lead  
*Winner: The One We Wish Was Longer  
*Judges honorable mention (Wildflower Weasley)

**Better**

To the casual observer, I’m the man who has it all. Love me or hate me, Draco Malfoy is a force to be reckoned with. Powerful. Rich. Passionate. Respected. My traits read like a dictionary of adjectives.

I grew into the role of patriarch of the Malfoy dynasty with an accomplished ease; something that, had my father survived his second imprisonment in Azkaban, would have made him prouder than the peacocks that strutted about the grounds of Malfoy Manor, all shiny and white and all-so-Malfoyish.

Yes, for all intents and purposes I have it all.

Blessed genetics, a beautiful wealthy wife, an heir, business sense and acumen, and a back-story worthy of a great redemption novel —a novel that had in fact been proposed in the form of an actual authorized biography— not to be confused with the scandalous rot that Rita Skeeter had tried to write before her permanent relocation ‘_elsewhere_’ for ‘_an_ _undisclosed period of time_’ (read, dead).

It was the thought of an authorized biography that planted the idea first. The idea that had sat in the back of my mind, biding its time until one night, it burst forth, shaking me with the ferocity of a herd of raging centaurs, until it was all I could think about - consuming me with passion, anxiety and purpose. It wasn’t until I acknowledged the way forward, that I could even sleep peacefully. But the night that I wrote that first line, I slept until ten the next morning and awoke like a new man:

_ The greatest thing, you’ll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return. _

Living with hard decisions is nothing new to me. For most of my life, the decisions —all of them— have been made for me. I am the consummate product of a pure-blood wizarding family; there were rules and doctrines that I needed to adhere to, expectations placed on me that extended beyond the realm of acceptable societal norms. The path I was forced to travel was one largely out of my influence, so I walked like a dog on a lead, obeying the master— trying to make him proud; attend Hogwarts? Be a prejudiced prick? Serve a sociopathic Dark Lord? Kill one of the most famous and powerful wizards of all time? Fight a war I didn’t believe in? They were choices I did not have.

To learn to love for the sake of love?

I had that choice. I _ made _ that choice.

I think about this as I sip slowly on my Muggle whisky and stare into the fireplace. The room is silent except for the gentle whisper of the flames, dark except for the warm light of the fire. I closed my eyes as the peaty drink slips down my throat, familiar and grounding. There was a time that I swore never to drink this again.

I finger the vial of dark metal secured around my neck by an enchanted silver chain, a ‘Claddagh’ at its top. It is like a part of my body I am so familiar with it. It is deceptive in its plainness, its precious contents secure and hidden from the world. The vial hangs over my heart and is engraved simply with ‘Better, not Bitter. -C’.

And it is a lesson I will never forget.

**January 2000, London, somewhere.**

In terms of sentencing, slumming it with Muggles wouldn’t have been so bad, tolerable even, but combined with the Ministry’s decision to repress my magic for two years, I am outraged! Still, Mother had argued that, when faced with the alternative of imprisonment in Azkaban for an additional five years, this was the lesser of the two punishments. She’d encouraged me to treat it like a holiday of sorts. She even said that she thought it might help me move forward, assured me that when this sentence was served, the betrothal to Astoria would be formalized with an engagement. Of course the Greengrasses had ensured that it would still proceed— it’s a strategic alliance after all. I’d be seen to have been reformed- to be tolerant, accepting of Muggles and their place in magical culture. My conviction was simply an inconvenient consequence of getting caught in this clusterfuckery.

I signal to the bartender to send another whisky over. One thing Muggles got right was their liquor; Muggle whisky did the job, and for the life of me, it was going to do the job tonight. Fuck the squib. Give him something to take back to the Ministry. Let him tell them how Draco Malfoy royally fucked himself up in some grotty Muggle pub and choked on his own vomit. Take that to the bloody Prophet: ‘Malfoy Heir dies a Death Eater.’

The bartender smiles at me.

I return it with a look that quite simply says: ‘fuck off’—emphasised with my practised Malfoy scowl. Surely, he’s smart enough to understand that? Just in case he’s not, I also give him my best version of a snarl. _ Good _— message received and off the ginger bartender goes.

Why can’t there be a decent looking woman behind the bar? Right now, I really fancy a good look at some tits- just once more before I die in an alley somewhere. I’m a young man after all. I wonder if Astoria has nice breasts? I must think ‘breasts’ because Astoria wouldn’t have ‘tits’.

I look around to see if there are any women here. The pub is quiet tonight I suppose; although, judging by flaking wallpaper, the low lighting and sticky carpet, maybe the place doesn’t get that many customers. _ Fantastic _. No-one to make small talk. No-one to fucking bother me.

“From the man over there.” The smiley bartender says. 

I squint a little bringing him into focus, I really wish he would stand still.

I turn to see the man who had gifted me the… — water— what the fuck?

He ducks his head in acknowledgement and then looks away. I can’t make out the details of him really because: a) he’s sitting in the shadows a bit too far away from me, b) he’s wearing a hoodie that covers his head, and c) I now realise that I am possibly drunker than I thought.

He’s tall though, I can make that bit out, but other than that, I really don’t care. Water. Hmph. Who does he think he is— my father? And, what, he’s smiling at me too? The nerve. I deliberately take a long sip of my whisky, holding it up to the stranger in salute. Screw your water, mate. I turn back to the bar, but not before adjusting myself so I can see him in the mirrored shelves that hold all the spirits. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. Always be prepared for the unexpected.

He won’t be sneaking up on me.

⦽

I can feel him watching me, and I can see him sitting in the shadows… patiently. I continue to ignore him and ignore the water he sent me. If he’s trying to make me uncomfortable with his blatant stares, he has no idea who he’s dealing with— Draco Malfoy doesn’t give a toss about some inconsequential Muggle, not when my life is so fucked up.

I down two more drinks before I feel him approach me. I look up to see him walking, almost swaggering. The man pulls out a stool next to me.

“You should drink some water. Whisky really messes you up when you aren’t used to it… speaking from experience,” the man says. I refuse to look at the prat. Who’s he to lecture Draco sodding Malfoy of the great house of Malfoy?

“Been drinking whisky for years. Fuck off,” I slur back. Get the message mate.

“Not this whisky I’d wager. Careful Malfoy, the Muggle stuff will really fuck you up.”

What did he say? I turn then on my stool, my body moving too fast for my mind and I feel a bit giddy. I look at the man, he’s strangely familiar, but for the life of me, my brain is too slow to come up with a name. I squint at him bringing him into focus. Definitely familiar though...

“I know you…” I say, hearing my words spill out, over-articulated so the man won’t realise just how drunk I am. “.... You’re… ah… don’t tell me…”

The man waits patiently, a bemused smile forming on his handsome face. _ Don’t think about that Draco _ , I say to myself, _ focus _ . He is familiar… but not… and surely, _ surely _, I’d remember someone like this. He knew my name. Said 'Muggle'. Aha!

“Magical….” I conclude drunkenly, “...McLaggen. That’s it! ... knew it… told you so.”

“Magical McLaggen, hmm, never been called that before. A secret name for me then, Malfoy? Used to fancy me, did you?” the man teases. Still annoying, then.

I try to sit up straight, and stiffen; was McLaggen using Legilimency? Automatically I throw up my shields. How can I be so stupid! Severus’ first lesson was to always maintain my shields. Why did I think living as a muggle would mean anything different?

“No… ’course not.” I snarl my reply. The man —McLaggen— just shrugs and orders two waters.

“I heard about your sentencing. Never thought to see you here. Fancy that, eh?” Yeah, fancy fucking that. Get lost.

“Fuck off, McLaggen. Can’t you see I’m trying to die like a Muggle?” I burp silently, whisky fumes burning my throat and nose.

“Bit extreme mate, wanting to die. It’s not that bad, I'm sure.”

“What d'you know? Fuck off. I’m stuck here, and you’re not, s’ go ’way.” _ Do not slur Draco, remember your breeding _. The drink is catching me up, and I’m more wasted than I think if I can hear my father’s voice berating me.

“I’m stuck here too, but here’s a secret between me and you…” McLaggen looks around conspiratorially, and I feel like I really need to know that secret. I lean in closer to him, I can smell him, like sweet wet powder, musky and comforting. “...it’s not so bad. It’s great even.”

That’s not even a secret! Who is this fool? A secret is something people die over, not… that. McLaggen continues, brushing his fringe of curls from his eyes as he speaks.

“Don’t you see Draco? You’ve been living in a cage. I was living in a cage… of course, yours was a little better appointed than mine; but still, a cage. Here you have freedom. They’ve released you, they think it’s to teach you a lesson; but really, they’ve given you a chance to be someone else, to be free to be the person you were always meant to be. No more of their stupid fucking rules, the rules that shackle us to that society. Here, _ here _ we’re free.” He salutes his glass of water to the picture of the Muggle Queen that sits over the bar. I watch as he brings the glass to his lips, gulps the water down, and then presses them together.

“I’m free. I won’t be going back. That boy —because I wasn’t a man— that boy is dead. Here, here I’m a man, and I am free.” He is matter-of-fact. I pretend to ignore him. “They think I’ll go back, think once I get ‘this’ out of my system, that I’ll be back — take up my position in society, continue the McLaggen legacy, sit on the ‘28’ maybe. I thought I loved my family, but I love me more. I always have been a selfish prick; am I still?” he shrugs. I still ignore him; why is he even talking to me?

“They think —even though they won’t say it aloud— that having magic makes us more powerful than the Muggles. In some ways it does. But you want to know what the true power is? _ Freedom _. It’s freedom. I have it now, and so do you. Now, your journey begins.”

I snort, taking the last mouthful of my whisky, rolling it in my mouth before swallowing. Salazar's sack, I wish the prick would shut up and shove off.

“Who are you, Draco? Really— who are you? Are you still the uptight pompous little Lord from school, dripping in privilege and sneering at the world? Who do you _ want _ to be? No one knows you here, mate. You’ve been granted a gift. By accepting it, you can be who you truly are; you can be free too. Freedom is power.” 

_ Who _ am I? Who is he? Who does he think he is to speak to me like this? I feel a small flame of indignation spark in me, but then I catch sight of my reflection in the bar mirror and I sigh. I can’t be bothered with all of this.

“Power is dangerous.” I mumble. I look at him sideways, if anyone is familiar with the dangers that come with power, it’s me. I still wear the Mark after all.

“Not if you do something good with it. What if being given this power is your way to make amends, to set the world right again, to tip it back onto its axis. You’re more than your past. You write your own future.”

“When did you get so fucking wise, McLaggen?” He’s clearly obtuse not to take the hint of what ‘leave me alone’ means.

“From Oprah and Dr Phil. Muggles have the greatest thing: a telly! On Channel 5, check them out. I watch those two all the time.” He shrugs to himself, turning to face me. I return his gaze. He seems to be studying my face, but I don’t know why. 

“Say, where are you living now? Did the Ministry give you a house or a flat, or did your mother buy you one so you could slum it in style?” Is he baiting me? If he is, I hope he likes disappointment because I am _ not _ playing his game. I remain passive, subduing the spark that wants to fire up.

“Ministry… and I don’t fuckin’ know where it is. Not like I can apparate there is it?” I realise I am quite drunk; I can feel my eyes slowly blinking and I have given up trying to hide the slur of my words.

“Do you have an address?”

“No.” I have to look through one eye now, the whisky racing through my system is catching up to me.

” What do you mean ‘no’? Do you even know where you live?”

“Yeah… in somefuckingshitbox… i’s grey and i’s small an’ i’s dirty…”

“But,” McLaggen pauses patiently, “do you know how to get home? Do you know how you got here?”

“I fuckin’ walked here… been walking all afternoon… don’t even know where here is.” I give him a lopsided smile. “Say, where am I Swaggin’?” My feet are still fucking wet from the snow. Damned stupid Muggle shoes.

“Swaggin’?”

“Yeah, y’know, ‘Swaggin’ McLaggen’… all used t’ call you that… at school… thought you were sooo good… sooo attractive… Shaggin’ McLaggen…” I gwaf, as I try to keep my eyes focused on the man in front of me. Damn. He is looking quite fit these days. "…even fucking Granger… so… did you fuck her? Did you fuck the little swot ‘fore she’s famous? Di’ Granger get a piece of your hot arse ’fore the Weasel swooped in?” I can feel myself swaying on my stool. 

McLaggen looks at me, I try to hold on to the bar for balance.

He looks like he’s considering what I just said, I see his brow quirk up as if he likes what he’s concluded.

I lean forward, closer to him. He looks like he’s about to let me in on just what that conclusion is. My hand slips on the bar and then I am falling, right into his lap. Merlin. Kill me now! 

The big oaf catches me —of course— and I close my eyes for the shame of it all.

Actually, I quite like my eyes closed. I might just stay like this and have a sleep.

“Call us a taxi will you, Rory? Guess I’ll have to take this sod home with me.” I hear him say, but I’m falling under the spell of sleep and I don’t really care for contributing to the conversation.

“Lucky him.” Smiley man says. “Careful he doesn’t piss or spew on you first; haven’t seen one like him for a while, he’s fully munted.” Fuck you barkeep.

McLaggen’s voice is far away now. “He’s had a bit of a rough time of it lately... know him from school... always was a bit of a handful.”

⦽

Am I alive? I breathe deep to check. Oh, Morgana’s minge! My mouth tastes like I’ve eaten a steaming hippogriff turd, and my head! Oh, my head! Each pulse of my heart is hammering my skull, even the back of my eyeballs ache. And I’m so dry… and I can smell vomit.

I try to move; my body is heavy and thick with clumsiness. My gut muscles ache, which means I’ve vomited sometime. A lot. Where am I? What happened last night?

I take another deep breath and relax, trying to remember. I remember seeing my new ‘flat’ the Ministry had, in their supreme generosity, allocated me. I remember the smell of it, the smallness of it… then I remember feeling furious and leaving the place behind me as I slammed the door and walked blindly, wanting to forget about this sentence, wanting to forget everything. I had a small amount of Muggle money they gave me to use for initial living expenses. Mother had promised to send me more when it was safe to do so, but I will not be living in that dump! It’s not even fit for a House Elf! Then walking, finding that Muggle bar, thinking maybe about finding a bird to shag the brains out of, but… none… the pub, yes; I remember drinking whisky, remembered seeing someone I knew…

“All right there Malfoy?” comes a voice next to me.

Slowly I turn my head and crack open one eye. After blinking a few times to focus, I see someone that looks strangely like that cocky Gryffindor, McLaggen…

I startle, and then groan. The man lying next to me laughs. My fucking head! It feels like a Beater’s bat has been taken to it.

Hang on a minute! It _ is _ McLaggen. Next to me. In a bed.

“Is this your first Muggle hangover, mate? Because, you certainly broke yourself in in style.”

“What? Where the fuck am I? Why are you here?” I grimace; was this what a hangover was? If so, fucking Lord Voldemort could have just killed people with Muggle whisky. How poetic.

“Well… you're in my bed… in my flat, so I guess it's only fitting that I’m here too.” Shite.

“What? What do you mean ‘your flat’?”

“I think that’s quite self-explanatory mate; I brought you home last night? From the pub. Don’t you remember?”

Oh fuck-no. I shake my head. Damn that filthy Muggle whisky to Hades and back!

“Not even all that talk about my ‘hot arse’?" I can hear a smile in his voice, like he thinks he’s going to have some fun with me.

“No. I don’t remember.” I open both my eyes and look at him. What did this fool mean by ‘brought you home’?

My aching stomach flips, and I slowly move my hand under the sheet and check what I already suspect. I am naked. My hands still. I couldn’t have - could I? Surely, I’d remember shagging McLaggen, and did McLaggen even go for that sort of thing?

I realise that there are two ways I can face this scenario: one, curl up and die; or two, face it like a man. I feel like I want to die anyways right now, so I guess its number two then.

“I’m not wearing any clothes…” I say slowly.

“No.”

“… why?”

“Because I removed them.”

“I see.” Silence.

“Do you?” he challenges me with a stare.

“Erm… did we…?” Please don’t make me say it.

“Did we what… _ Draco _?" He raises his eyebrows in question, and I feel a warmth wash over my face and down my neck. Can this get any better?

What! He called me _ Draco _?! Oh, fuckity fuck.

“You _ know _…” I say through gritted teeth.

“Did we… talk? Yes.” Silence.

“… was that all?”

“No.”

“What else?” _ Fuck him _! Was McLaggen going to make me beg for the truth?

“Well, we got to know each other again, _ intimately _…” Silence.

“How intimately?” My voice is a hoarse whisper, and I regret how weak I sound.

McLaggen moves his gaze, slowly and deliberately from my face all the way down to my toes and then back again. “I took off your clothes.”

“I can see that… what _ else _ happened?” I am starting to get annoyed at his game.

He just smiles at me… and damned if it's not just a bit cheeky.

“Well, we shared our deepest secrets and you told me I had a hot arse…” I close my eyes and try to hide nonchalantly under my forearm covering my face.

Shields up. 

A fracture of memory surfaces - McLaggen, helping me out of my shirt… rolling off my socks… oh good Godric! ...pulling off my muggle denims… saying something that I dreadfully regret right about now.

_ “I showed you mine, now show me yours”. _ My face flames with heat now and I wonder how I can possibly salvage my last shred of dignity.

Silence.

I want to shrivel up in embarrassment and die… again… but quite honestly, at this point in time, I just can’t be bothered dying. I feel so sick. Fuck it to hell then.

“So… since I can’t remember… do you?” Did I just say that out loud? Stupid drunk brain.

I repress the urge to cringe, and instead look him directly in the eyes.

“Do I what?”

I try to gather all my Slytherin charm. “Have a hot arse?” That’s it Draco, man up. 

“So I’ve been told.”

“And… did I shag you?” Fuck! Stop. Talking.

“Mate, you couldn’t have shagged your own hand last night… and before you ask, no, I didn’t shag you either. I wouldn’t do that...”

“Oh.” Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.

“_ …because _,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I’m not that sort of bloke.” Pause again. “I’d at least take you to dinner first.”

“Oh.” Ok. There it was. This ‘feeling’ that I was picking up from the man next to me _ was _ what I thought it was. “So, where are my clothes then?”

“In the wash. You spewed all over them. And my lounge. And the floor.”

“Um... sorry ‘bout that.” Circe— fucking take me now, please let the floor open and swallow me whole. The last shred of self-respect I had just effectively evaporated. “Well, aren’t you glad then, to witness how far the infamous Death Eater Draco Malfoy has fallen? To see another of my finest moments?” My embarrassment turns to shame. I really do feel too sick to put venom into the retort. I just… can’t.

“Draco, I’m glad that I found you last night. You do know where you were, don’t you? What could have happened?”

“No.” Gods, would this conversation never end?

“You were in a gay pub mate… normally not so bad, but there’s been trouble around there lately, some bad things have happened.”

“So why were you there then? Looking for a bit, were you?” I school my features to neutral, re-check my shields are holding up. I do not want him to hear the curiosity - or is it disappointment? - in my voice.

“No, not my scene really. I was there to see Rory.” Bang. There it is. _ Boyfriend _.

“He your boyfriend?” The question comes out harsher than I intended it to. Why do I care though? He is nothing to me, he never has been.

“He’s a mate. I stopped by on my way home from work.”

“Mhmm.” A sharp flare of pain seizes my skull.

“Here. Take these, and then go back to sleep. You’ll feel better soon. No pain potions for you, and no Pepper-Ups either. I’m afraid you’ll have to weather it like the rest of us. Like a Muggle.”

Because that’s essentially what I am now, a Muggle.

I take the glass of bubbling brown liquid from him, along with two small round tablets. I eye him sceptically and swallow the pills with the bubbling liquid. It is surprisingly sweet.

“It’s Coke; the Muggle drink of champions. Get some sleep. You’re safe here, and when you wake up, we’ll sort everything else out.” His voice is kind, but I find no pity there.

I nod, mutter a small thanks, then lay back, close my eyes and think of….

⦽

I wake with the urgent need to piss.

I look around the neat room, a light coming from an open doorway showing me where the bathroom is. Then I remember where I am.

Cormac ‘fucking’ McLaggen.

I need to think on this further, but first, I need to take a leak— badly.

A small yellow square of paper is stuck somehow to the top of the toilet cistern. It simply says ‘_ Have a shower, here’s fresh clothes _.

The en-suite bathroom is clean and tidy; a large spa bath looks out onto a park area through a large window, and from that window I can see it’s night-time. I take in the room as I pee, making a mental note that the order and cleanliness of the space must say something about its owner. So, he isn’t a lazy sod then. A large double headed shower sits against the opposite wall, and there, placed on a stool is a bathrobe, some boxer shorts and a t-shirt. Well then, a shower it is.

The shower is hot, and it makes me feel a little dizzy. Turning on the cold water only, I gasp, but the cold brings a clarity to my thoughts, waking up my body. I lather myself in something called ‘BRUT body wash’ that is propped up on the shower caddy. It smells like he did last night. I remember that he smelt good. Now I smell like him - perhaps he’ll think I smell good too. 

I emerge from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, fully washed, sanitized, and not a hint of vomit remaining. I slowly move through the bedroom and down the stairs to the smell of food. My stomach turns and my mouth waters, but not from hunger. I take a breath to calm my roiling gut and follow the smells into a brightly lit kitchen.

“Why, hello there sunshine. Nice of you to join me.” I study the man opposite me properly, now that I can see without a headache or doubled vision.

He seems to be anticipating my hesitation and looks directly into my eyes and smiles. My stomach lurches again.

“Yeah, hi.” I’m standing awkwardly in the doorway; my hand runs up the back of my neck then up through my recently combed hair. Do I sit or stand?

“Best thing for a hangover is this,” he hands me a glass of fizzing yellow liquid, “and these.” He passes me a bowl of crisps.

“Berocca and electrolyte replacements, and salt and vinegar chips. Hangover cure. Then, if you feel up to it, I can heat up some greasy Chinese.” He shoves a forkful of fried rice in his mouth as he speaks. Clearly, he has forsaken the rules of dining etiquette. My stomach heaves and it must have shown on my face. “…or not. Up to you. Please, have a seat.”

I take the opportunity to sit. The shower has taken up my available energy reserves. I look at the fizzing glass before me and gingerly take a sip of the yellow drink.

“Oh, fair warning.” I pause drinking, holding the mouthful, uncertain whether to swallow. I question him with wide eyes. “… it will make your piss yellow. Don’t stress when you see it. You’re not dying.” I nod and swallow.

He’s different from how I remember him at school— not that I’d really taken _ that _ much notice of him all of sixth and seventh year. I had, of course, been otherwise occupied with ‘darker’ matters. But nonetheless, this was not a boy before me, this was a man. A very well defined and attractive man. The McLaggen that I remembered was large and burly, wiry hair cut short, and not much more. Ok, well, perhaps there was the odd imagining of what lay beneath that somewhat too tight school shirt, effortlessly rolled up to the elbow, the tie, always askance, but then again, he was a Gryffindor, so, off limits.

The man before me is a few inches taller, so perhaps 6’2”, and he’s grown not only in height, but in width. The man before me stands at ease, relaxed in low slung track pants that cover what I can already see is a slim waist and defined legs. A black t-shirt with the words ‘Pearl Jam’ and a crazy looking stick figure man seem to fit perfectly over his pectorals and hug his biceps like a crazy lover. He’s definitely been looking after himself - no one looks the way he does without serious self-care - and whatever had happened after the war was obviously a good thing for him. The cropped wiry hair now falls in soft curls about his face, giving him a dishevelled look; he is a man who knows how to maximize his impact. I gulp another mouthful of the fruity yellow drink.

“Thanks.” Thanks?! I berate myself over the stupid choice of word that tumbles from my mouth; I’m disappointed that this is all I can manage.

"No probs.” He shoots me another smile, his eyes sparkling as he gives a most self-assured wink.

I take another gulp of drink then shove some chips in my mouth to stop myself from talking again.

“So, how are you feeling? Better?” He eats more rice; a piece of carrot has dropped onto his T-shirt, orange against the black.

I nod, pretending to be absorbed in the delicious potato chips that are tingling on my tongue, afraid to speak. I see him pick the carrot off and pop it into his mouth.

“I remember my first Muggle hangover, I thought I was going to die. No potions, no magic… It took me six weeks to drink again. But then, I was on my own. It was all a fucking huge learning curve, I can tell you that.” He reaches into my chip bowl and snags a handful of the S & V’s, eating them one at a time.

He continues, “So, you said you’ve been sentenced to 18 months?” His stare is unnerving me. He acts like we are friends.

“Muggle Integration Therapy. That’s what they’re calling it. Just another prison sentence; probably hope that I’ll fucking die in a gutter somewhere.” I try not to sound like I’m attending a pity-party for one, but I don’t think it’s working.

“It seems you got off lightly. I thought you’d be sent to Azkaban.”

“I was. I spent twelve months there before my trial.”

“And…?”

“And what? It was horrible. I wanted to die.” Is he dense?

“But you’re here now.”

“Yeah. Here I am.” Just _ where _ I am remains to be seen.

“Why? I mean, everyone knows that you were in with You-Know-Who…” His eyes are wary, and I feel he is trying to find out something, to trip me up.

“Yeah, well, appearances can be deceiving.” I say, shovelling more chips in my mouth, crunching away so I don’t have to say more. The taste though… Muggles know how to pack flavour in their crisps, that’s for sure.

“Yeah. I saw you, you know. At the battle. I saw you fight on our side.” His voice is soft, like he is remembering the horrors of that night.

“Were you at the trial? The Ministry called all witnesses forward. Did you speak for me?” It’s my turn to extract information now, and I don’t hide it.

“No. I was… away. But I would have. Spoken for you, I mean. I would have spoken for you. I saw you fight. I saw you…” He takes a long drink from his own glass, of the drink ‘Coke’.

“Thanks.” My voice is small, I’m unsure what to feel. Gratitude?

He half smiles back at me. “I didn’t hang around long after the battle. I had to go.”

I study him, trying to figure out what he’s saying without saying it. “It’s ok. Believe it or not, your girlfriend Granger and Potter testified for me. Probably why I got off on this M.I.T. and a magic suppression order. That’s two years, the suppression. Might as well take my balls.” I’m watching him now. Slytherin mode activated.

“Hmph. Well, I’d say you got off lightly. Two years suppression and 18 months M.I.T. Mate, you could’ve been rotting in Azkaban for life. I think you need to look at this whole sentencing thing with a different set of eyes. And, by the way, Granger was never my girlfriend. I tried, but…”

“My father’s dead. He was given the Dementor’s kiss. I know how lucky I am, ok?” I want to be angry; I want to rage at him —at anyone— but I just don’t have the energy. Instead I shrug and run my index finger around the rim of the glass. Rage can wait another day.

“Sorry, I don’t know what else to say. It was all pretty fucked up. Still is.”

“It is what it is. That’s war, right? Winners and fucking losers. I’m not sure which one I am.” To emphasise my point, I pull up the left sleeve of the bathrobe, showing him the Dark Mark that I know he’s already seen.

“You’re a winner, Draco.” He sounds sure of that. I wish I had his confidence.

“We’ll see.” I want to change the direction of the conversation, and I decide to do what I’ve never really done before: I ask how he is doing.

“I’m great. It took a while to settle in, adjustments and all, but I prefer it here. I like living as a Muggle, I’m… free.”

“What do you mean, free?”

“Don’t you remember our conversation last night? Our very deep and meaningful heart to heart? No? Shame.” He takes a deep breath, “I mean, I’m a self-made man here. No one knows my family, no one knows me. Here I just _ am _. I have a job, a good job, and I answer to me. That’s it. Me.”

“What do you do, McLaggen?” I realize it is the first time I’ve said his name. It feels personal. I hope I haven’t blushed.

“Call me Cormac. I think you being naked in my bed allows you that.” This time I know I’ve bloody well blushed. Not very manly at all.

“Well… I’m in the entertainment industry. It seems Muggles like to be entertained. I model, I do a bit of acting…”

“Like plays? In a theatre?”

“No. More like films. Short films.”

“And this is a... Muggle profession? You can make a living from it?”

“Yes. A very _ good _ living.” He gestures around him to the apartment. “It seems I have a _ je ne sais quoi _. Probably a Magical thing, but still, the Muggles love it. They can’t get enough of me and I plan on milking it until it’s dry and dusty, my friend.”

“What sort of films do you make?” I’m interested; maybe I can get a job making films too? I need a job and acting sounds semi-respectable.

“The Muggles call them ‘porn’- pornography. I fuck and get filmed and get paid to do it. Win fucking win mate.” Hang on - what?!

Being paid to shag? That was actually a Muggle thing? Sweet Helga Hufflepuff!

“Of course, it’s not real. Any of it.” Cormac continues, “It’s anything but glamorous and it’s never personal. And, I wear a mask. They love that.” He takes a drink, rolling his lips together. “I’ll tell you now, even though I enjoy it very, _ very _ much… at the end of the day it’s work. They pay me to look good and fuck. So, I look good and fuck.” I can feel his gaze on me.

I think on this, and wonder, “and…” I clear my throat, “…do you work with men or women?”

“Both. I fuck them both.” I choke a little on the half-chewed crisps in my mouth.

“Both?”

“Yep, every way you can think of. I’ve done it all.”

I take a deep breath. _All_. Just thinking of McLaggen, naked, rutting into… anyone… causes my cock to start to fill and stiffen. This can't be happening! But it is. I’m desperately trying to clear the images of Cormac from my mind. Images of Cormac’s contoured back, his toned arse snapping backwards and forwards, Cormac’s head tipped back, a cry of ecstasy breaking from his mouth…

The silence following that statement is short lived. “I never thought I’d be able to make the great Draco Malfoy blush,” he laughs, slapping my back. “Fancy that!"

Salazar's saggy sack! “Must be the hangover.” I mutter taking a hasty sip of my drink.

Cormac’s grinning at me, his blue eyes dancing with mirth.

“You may be well hungover, _ Draco _, but I can tell you… that I am well hung.” He fucking winks at me! The incorrigible flirt. He laughs as I spit Berocca all over the tabletop.

*

I sit in the kitchen alone for a few minutes, unsure of what to do next. Do I just go find my clothes and try to find out where the hell I live? Where _ do _I live?

I’d never even thought to ask my address from the Parole officer, and in retrospect, this was a huge mistake. The fucking squib probably hoped I’d get lost or killed even; what was it he said?

_ ‘I’ve done my job getting you here, you Death Eater scum. You’re on your own now. I’ll see you in a week; all the details are on the benchtop inside. And if I don’t see you at the designated time, well... they’ll find you." He’d given a sneer that had pulled flaking lips tight over his yellowed teeth. _

_ “Who’ll find me?” Perhaps the Golden Trio would be sent to reprimand me. A reunion. _

_ “Dementors,” the squib snarled. “Hear they like to kiss your family.” He’d laughed cruelly before hopping back in the Muggle automobile and starting the engine. I was left standing alone in the street with one very unmagical bag and a handful of mixed Muggle money. I’d turned to the red brick building, clone-like with its neighbours, and stared at it in disdain and apprehension. What the hell was I going to do? _

_ The front door of the flat was grubby and grey and looked like a fist had been used as a key at some point. Pushing the door open, I’d walked inside, the stale air chilled and smokey. It took less than twenty seconds to explore the flat. It was compact, cold, and nothing like I’d experienced before. For Slytherins sake! My dormitory room at school was bigger than this. Perhaps this is what Potter had lived in? If so, I could understand why he’d always seemed so forlorn going home on breaks. Something moved in my peripheral vision, and I automatically reached for my wand, remembering that that, too, had been taken from me. I was, for all intents and purposes, a fucking Muggle. Wandless and weaponless, I instead watched the cockroach crawl across the dinette bench. There was some sort of animal shit on the bench too - rat or mouse, I couldn’t tell. _

_ “Fuck this for a joke.” I swore and strode out of the flat, letting the door slam behind me. I hadn’t even thought to take the key, or my bag— absolutely fucking perfect— because all I owned in this new world was in it, and now it was locked inside the flat with my only key. And all my parole paperwork. All I had were the clothes on my back and a pocketful of cash. I’d started my Muggle life then, walking down unfamiliar streets, collar turned up, body slumped, and my only company a biting wind that nipped at my face and ears. How long I’d walked I wasn’t sure. My feet were numb and the sky dark when I’d literally stumbled into the pub, not caring for where I was as long as I could warm up, be left alone and drink my sorrows away. _

Cormac strides back into the kitchen and pulls out a seat across from me.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“I literally don’t have a cent to my name, but I can tell you for free that I’m fucked. I feel like absolute shit between this headache and wanting to vomit. And I have no idea where I live. My house key is on my benchtop, next to my one bag of possessions, and my parole papers, inside my locked house. Most of my start-up money was pissed up in whisky last night, I have no magic, and I am being forced to live in squalor as a Muggle. How’s that for you?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty fucked. No two ways about it.”

My head falls to the table, resting on my arms, my eyes squeezed shut. I need to breathe. I can feel the darkness closing in, starting to break over me. Deep breaths in… and out… in… and out. I will not break in front of this man. I didn’t break before Father, or Voldemort, and I certainly will not break in front of Cormac-fucking-McLaggen.

“Easy there mate.” His voice is soft and sympathetic. I take another deep breath and then there’s a large hand, warm and strong, on the back of my shoulders. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll help you.”

My head snaps up at this comment.

“Why?” I want to know. “Why would you help me? We’re not even friends.”

“We _ weren’t _ friends, but we can be now. No one here knows what it was like during the war except us. I can help you learn how to make it as a Muggle; you don’t _ need _ magic, Draco.”

"Yes, but I need a fucking house. I need fucking money. I’m on my own, and I don’t know how to do that.”

“You’re not on your own. You have me. If you want me…” What was this? A fucking pickup line?

“Want you?” I’m careful to sound especially neutral in tone.

“To help you,” Cormac challenges me. “There’s no shame in accepting help. I’d have died by now if I hadn't lost my pride. Muggles aren’t all bad; some of them are pretty great actually. Just think of me helping you is like karma.”

“Karma?”

“What goes around comes around.”

I stare at an invisible spot on the tabletop, scratch it with my fingernail.

“And what’s in it for you then, _ Cormac _ ?” That’s the rub of it then, wasn’t it? Everyone wants _ something _.

“Who knows? A mate? Someone I can relate to? Someone who understands? …Redemption?” the last word was soft as if he meant to say it only for himself.

My ears pick up on that word.

“Redemption?”

“Yeah. You’re not the only one living out a life sentence.” Cormac mutters, before abruptly pushing away from the table and moving the now empty glasses to the sink. “Choice is yours, mate.”

I feel trapped, like I’m again cornered by the Dark Lord, backed into a corner with no options of escape. I know I’m stuck, with no way out… yet.

“Ok.” I struggle to sound proud, to offer this to Cormac as an agreement, someone who will not be pitied.

“Ok.” Cormac leans against the chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Life’s not fair, Draco, don't be a bitter person, be a _ better _ person. I know you can be a better person. You aren’t your past.”

I sigh, “I want to be better.”

“Good. That’s the first step. I don’t know about you, but I’m shattered from being up with you last night. I’m ready for bed. I have to work tomorrow.”

I try not to think of what that _ work _ might be. I nod, and look around, unsure of where to go, what to do. I stand slowly.

“I’m sorry, there’s only one bed here, and not any spare linen. I don’t entertain guests often… And the lounge, well, I was going to get a new one anyway. That one’s going to the tip now. So, if you want to sleep tonight, or if you don’t, you’ll have to join me. “

I swallow, feeling my Adam's apple bob in my dry throat. Curiosity gets the better of me, “What are you working on tomorrow?” I resist adding the ‘who’ into that sentence.

“A photo shoot first, then, well, I’ll see. Come with me tomorrow?”

Would this man ever stop talking in double entendres?

“Sure. Not like I have other plans.”

“Good. I think my agent will like you. You might get some work.”

“Doing what?” I stop walking. Working with Cormac? Making a ‘film’? My cock begins to swell again.

“Who knows? Probably photographic. If you go on the books, I think you’ll have a lot of job offers.”

“What makes you so sure about that?”

“You’re a good-looking man, Draco. When I feed you up and put some meat on that body of yours, you’ll be golden.” He winks again. “But don’t let it go to your head, not now anyway.” And then the cheeky sod looks right down to the swell in my boxer shorts.

*

I lay awake, listening to Cormac breathing beside me. Despite the fatigue my body feels from the alcohol poisoning, my mind is racing. In the space of a day, I’ve lost everything, fallen even further from my pedestal; and then been lifted up, shown kindness, and been given a shot at a new life. I’ve limited choices, but maybe Cormac would be good for me? I’ve never really had a friend before, one who liked me for who I am and not for being a Malfoy. 

But now? Now, it seemed that something else was possible.

I admit that I’m intrigued by this man beside me, the man who respectfully has remained fully clothed and placed a pillow in between us. This is a man who is obviously free with his body, who has little self-consciousness in terms of nakedness. 

Nakedness. I begin reciting prime numbers in my head to stop those thoughts… Cormac’s arms, Cormac taking off his t-shirt… Cormac looking at me like he wants to....

“STOP!” Cormac yells next to me. Is he a mind reader? I stiffen, lying very still.

“STOP! No… No… Fred… Fred I’m sorry… so sorry… Fred…” And he is crying, the nightmare living in his head capturing him in its net. Cormac gasps, like a hand is winding around his throat choking the air from him, and then he’s thrashing, a wayward hand hitting me in the head.

I’m no stranger to the demons of sleep. I sit up and reach out to him.

“McLaggen. Cormac! Wake up!” I’m shaking him now, trying to rouse him, to get him to breathe. He continues to gasp for breath. Again, I shake him. In the moonlit room, I see his blue eyes fly open, staring at me but not seeing me at all.

“Fred. Forgive me. It was an accident. I wish I could take it back. Please. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to kill you… please…” And then he’s sobbing in my arms, sobbing to a dream Fred Weasley, and I smooth down his untamed curls and then gently, ever so lightly, kiss the top of his head.


End file.
